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her very best gown, and be served by himself and the young people. As he is not illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of state rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part; but she keeps her state with all imaginable cheerfulness.

On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff, to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the roasting of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of ceremony, an honored guest.

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving, as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To these young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a shake of the head, or a crooked face, as they make mistakes.

“At half-after one.” Says Mr. Bagnet. “To the minute. They'll be done.”

Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a stand-still before the fire, and beginning to burn.

“You shall have a dinner, old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet. “Fit for a queen.”

Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception of her son betrays so much uneasiness of spirit, that he is impelled by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, what is the matter?—thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more oblivious of the fowls than before, and not affording the least hope of a return to consciousness. Fortunately, his elder sister perceives the cause of the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast, and with an admonitory poke recalls him. The stopped fowls going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes her eyes, in the intensity of her relief.

“George will look us up,” says Mr. Bagnet. “At half-after four. To the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up. This afternoon?”

“Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I begin to think. Just about that, and no less,” returns Mrs. Bagnet, laughing, and shaking her head.

“Old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet. “Never mind. You'd be as young as ever you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybody knows.”

Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffy is sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what it will be.

“Do you know, Lignum,” says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on the table-cloth, and winking “salt!” at Malta with her right eye, and shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head; “I begin to think George is in the roving way again.”

“George,” returns Mr. Bagnet, “will never desert. And leave his old comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it.”

“No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he will. But if he could get over this money-trouble of his, I believe he would be off.”